WE ARRIVE at Bumpers Tavern—the bar where The Chatterbox claims to have picked-up Miranda Livingstone Sunday evening—before the noon-hour rush. Bumpers is located at the corner of 10th Ave and W 47th Street, kitty-corner to Hell’s Kitchen Park, near to where Miranda lived. Parking our police vehicle illegally facing north on 10th Ave, Melissa and I enter Bumpers through the front door. The place isn’t upscale, but it isn’t sketchy either. Looking annoyed, a hostess approaches, asks if we have a reservation.
As the place is empty, I respond curtly. “We’re not here to eat.” I flash my shield. “We need to speak to the manager.”
The hostess is young, early twenties, rail-thin wearing a tight black dress and an attitude. She is visibly unimpressed with my authority. With the confidence of youth, she tells us to stay put, which comes out more like a command.
Five minutes later we sit at a back booth with a man, mid-to-late-thirties, who identifies himself as Simon, full-time manager at Bumpers. Simon is a well-built, good-looking guy with sandy hair falling in waves to his shoulders, looking like he’d be at home on a surfboard as he would the Big Apple.
Eyeing Melissa, he orders a bottle of still water and three glasses from the hostess. From the corner of my eye, I see Melissa eye him back.
Water delivered, Simon pours. He says, “So, what’s this about?”
From my mobile, I show him a picture of Miranda Livingstone. Not one of her sitting upright duct-taped to a slat-back chair or a shot from the morgue, but one taken from an expired New York State Motor Vehicle Driver License registration.
Simon recognizes her immediately. “Miranda? What’s she done now?”
“You know Miranda?” I say.
“Sure. She’s a regular here, mostly weekends, some evenings during the week. She chips-in once in a while on the floor; short notice when she can to cover vacation time or if one of my staff calls in sick.”
“She doesn’t work here full-time?”
“No. Full-time is a Middle Eastern joint on W 47th near Times Square: the Persian Grille. Like I say, she only helps out.”
“Miranda work for you off the books?”
Simon frowns. “That’s what you’re asking? Doesn’t take a Gold Shield to ask me that. What’s she done?”
“What makes you think she’s done anything?”
“We’re talking about the same Miranda, right?”
“Miranda is dead,” I say. “Homicide. According to a witness, Bumpers is the place she was last seen alive.”
“Bummer.” Simon appears disturbed, but not unduly. “When?”
“Sunday.”
“We open eleven in the morning through to one a.m. on Sunday. Can you be more specific?”
“Mid-afternoon to closing.”
“She could have been. It was a shit-show in here, man, what with the weather and the patio. We were in the weeds all night long. Between helping out in the kitchen and busing tables, I didn’t have time to take a leak. If Miranda was here, I didn’t have time to talk.”
“You were on the floor this past Sunday night?”
“I was, but like I say...” Simon allows the statement to dangle.
“You have cameras?” I ask.
“We do, but they’re just for show. Haven’t worked in years.”
“Was Miranda alone?”
Simon shrugs. “Couldn’t say. Bar was packed three-deep. She could have been outside on the patio.”
“We’ll need a list of who worked over the weekend. Detective Johns will follow up with you for the list.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you need.” Simon smiles at Melissa as if I’ve arranged a date. Looking pleased, Melissa smiles back. Young love, I think to myself.
“Did you know her well?” I say.
“As well as you want to know any regular customer. She was okay. Liked her liquor.”
“She drink too much?”
Simon exhales a puff of air. “Miranda drank a lot too much.”
“Good drunk or bad?”
“Sloppy. Start early, leave late. Usually, we’d send her home in a cab, or Uber.”
“If she didn’t leave in a cab or Uber, how did she get home?”
“Miranda wasn’t shy about bumming rides.”
“She do that often? Leave with someone?”
“Fifty-fifty?” Seeming to reconsider, he says, “Seventy-thirty?”
“Strangers, boyfriends, regular customers from the bar? Anyone you know?”
“Strangers, mostly. Miranda never left with the same guy twice, I don’t think. Around here, it was a joke that she’s allergic to commitment.” Simon grins at what he thinks is clever. I listen while Melissa takes notes. Simon says, “Look, she wasn’t exactly a friend, and I didn’t know her outside of this place. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Any one individual she was particularly fond of?” I say.
“Not that I know. Like I say, maybe she didn’t want to shit where she ate? Maybe she did her cruising for hookups at other establishments? Around here, she was considered damaged goods.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning anyone who knew Miranda would know enough not to get too involved.”
“Anything else you can tell us that might help?”
“Nah,” Simon says with a shake of his head. “Miranda came loaded with baggage, a real downer, you know?”
“No, we don’t,” I say. “Enlighten us.”
Simon shifts his weight. “I get the impression she was brought up different than the woman she turned out to be.”
“How so?”
“I think the Miranda from a previous life had some class, maybe even money. Would wet herself before stopping to take a pee in a place like this. She used to babble on about her ex, what an asshole the guy was, how much money he had, how much she missed her kids, how she was determined to get them back. But it could have been the tequila talking. I used to think, shit man, seriously? You didn’t need to be a social worker to see she was a train-wreck.”
“She talk like this often?”
“Not lately. Lately, she was too wasted to make any sense.”
“Drugs?”
“Probably. Doesn’t mean anything; everyone around here does ‘em.” Simon reflects on this. “Not going to bust me for that, are you?”
“And you continued to serve her?” I say, ignoring him.
“I run a bar, dude, not a rehab clinic.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“You guys probably know more about her than me.”
Actually, Simon, I think as we get up to leave, we don’t know fuck-all. Passing him a card, I ask that he call if he thinks of anything else.